We've moved!!

The Writing Mamas of Fort Collins has moved to a different blog to expand our writing works beyond motherhood. While we may still post about tantrums, school and the changing relationships within our families, you will read more about us as women living in Fort Collins and all of our varied life experiences.

We hope you follow our journey there!

Reality Writes: A collective of Fort Collins women writers

Double standards of discipline

One of the more prominent fears I had when raising my tantruming toddler was The Public Tantrum - the one in the grocery store that made customer's heads turn and stare, piercing me to the depths of my soul.

The judgmental stare. That's what I was afraid of.

Most mothers do the best they can to raise their children to be model citizens and decent human beings. Our society is very judgmental towards parents and their ability to control their children in public. I often hear bits of conversation around town about how moms need to whip their kids into shape and not be the doormat their children are turning them into. I actually hear this point of view much more than hearing about parents being too hard on their kids. "Spare the rod, spoil the child".

I'm a pretty strict mom that has high expectations of my kids. My older son is only three and a half, but I expect him to follow direction, to not talk back, to clean up after himself and do the age-appropriate chores he is given. I try to teach him independence and how to handle responsibility. I try to teach him to not only respect me and his Dad, but others around him. I'm not one to give up or fold in teaching these lessons either.

In raising a three and a half year old, I have dealt with my fair share of public tantrums. I've left full carts of groceries to walk out of the store due to meltdowns and I've taken him by the hand to sit on time-out in front of the store until he had calmed down. I've been stopped by both store employees and customers thanking me for disciplining my son and teaching him about good public behavior. I got over my fear of public judgment when dealing with tantrums because I knew I was doing what was best for my son and our family.

That is, until recently.

Our last weekly grocery shopping trip was a challenge. The Preschooler was having a bad day and he had the behavior to go along with it. He was ignoring requests to sit in the cart with his brother or to stay close if he chose to walk. Rather, he decided to do his own thing and get in the way of other shoppers. After a full shopping trip of constant reprimanding, I was worn out - physically and mentally. We stopped for lunch while my husband grabbed a last minute item.

While in line, The Preschooler was up to his usual defiant antics - not listening to my requests of staying close by, being the annoying kid running around and not being aware of those around him. After narrowly getting run over by an old lady and her shopping cart, I quickly grabbed him by the arm, pulled him in towards me with The Baby on my other side and scolded him for not listening and getting in the way of others. The old lady sweetly told me not to get him into trouble, to which I explained "Yes, he would be in trouble for not listening all day".

And then it happened. The glaring judgmental stares. Everyone around me had the look of disbelief on their faces as if I had just pulled out the wooden spoon from my back pocket to whack my disobedient son on is bare bottom.

"Oh, he's fine. There's no reason for him to get into trouble", the old lady requested again.

"But he's little! How old is he?", the cashier asked.

"He's almost four. He's going to start preschool. He's old enough to follow direction and behave appropriately in public", I defended myself.

An uneasy silence filled the line of customers and employees, with everyone shifting uncomfortably. I felt sick to my stomach. Was I really being judged for disciplining my child in public? Did everyone really feel that I overreacted in scolding him for getting in the way of shoppers? All I did was give him a stern talking to with a firm grip on his arm, he did not get spanked even though I felt like strangling him right at that very moment. I felt myself burn red, feeling vilified for my choice.

I paid for our meal and my husband conveniently joined us at the table. I couldn't eat, I was still irritated. The Preschooler was picking at his meal and dropping it on the floor. "That's it. I'm done. We're out of here," I said in exasperation. We packed up our lunch and drove home in silence, my husband unaware of the upsetting event that had just occurred.

That evening I felt the sting of the double standards of public discipline. Parenting is hard enough as it is without comments and judgment from the peanut gallery. When confronted about disciplining choices, it's no wonder why some parents just let their kids scream in the stores. Now that many days have gone by and time has healed that wound, I will never judge another parent on public discipline (or not disciplining) again.

Kristin

I believe in being kind to others

I was married with three young children, ages 8, 6, and 11 months. My life seemed to be in order until my husband had an affair and left me for another woman. Within days of discovering this, the world I knew was turned upside down. My identity changed from “married with kids” to “single mom” within a matter of days. This happened right before the holidays, as well as days before the birthdays of two of my children. My baby would be turning one year old. There would be no happy family celebration for my baby’s first birthday and I knew he would never have a memory in his life of his mother and father living together.

That year I learned how hard it is to put on a joyful face and celebrate when your life is falling apart. I tried to go shopping. At first I wandered zombie-like through the mall, looking at cheerful holiday shoppers and families, believing that I was the only one with problems and that I was the only one who was in pain. I didn’t know how I could get through this and provide a normal holiday for my children. I mentioned this to a friend, who told me that there were many others that were also enduring struggles but I just didn’t know it. She convinced me that I was not the only one who felt shattered on the inside but on the outside appeared normal.

This message really clicked with me. In everyday life I began viewing people with a new sense of compassion. You never know what battles are being waged by those around you. I believe strongly that every interaction with another human being should involve being respectful, kind, and courteous, whether they are your co-workers, family members, or the check-out clerk at the grocery store. I believe that treating people with grace and dignity can make the difference in someone’s day, and it is a gift that you can give to others, free of charge. I believe that there are a lot of brave and courageous people that you meet every day that could use a word of encouragement and a smile. Sometimes when things may seem hopeless and problems may seem insurmountable, the kindness that you show to another human being can be a small but powerful gift in their lives. This I believe.

Peggy

Meeting Updates

Hi everyone... Thanks for the great meeting today!

Upcoming Meetings:
August 1st Saturday 8am at Alley Cat in Old Town
August 20th Thursday 7pm at Cafe Vino on College

We are also thinking about changing our name and focus. Let us know if you have ideas for a new name that has a broader focus. Keep up the blogging... Let's try to be more consistent.

Happy Writing!
Elisabeth

I guess dates aren't just for married couples

My husband and I have been married for 10 years. In those 10 years, we've learned that relationships take a lot of work. A lot of CONSTANT work. We are always working on our communication, always trying to remember to be considerate of each others feelings and trying to avoid the ruts we've fallen into in the past. Sometimes are aren't very successful and have to work even harder on getting our relationship back on track. We continually work on this together as a team.

While I've come to realize that our marriage will always be a work in progress, I never realized the same principles apply to parenthood.

I've been a mom for almost 4 years and this weekend it hit me like a ton of bricks that The Preschooler and I are in a rut. For quite some time now, his contentious antics and my inability to handle it with patience and grace has caused a rift between us. Being a parent is so much more difficult than being married because as a parent, you are essentially working on this relationship alone.

After a weekend of constant battling and button pushing, my husband ordered that The Preschooler and I go out to a movie together for some quality bonding time alone. He stated that since The Baby has been born almost 10 months ago, The Preschooler and I have not spent any special time together. This dose of reality made me feel like a completely crappy mom. Here we had been stuck in the rut of day to day routines, spending every hour of the day together, and it never occurred to me that we were drifting apart. But we were. We are. He's not even 4 years old yet and it's a heartbreaking level of awareness to see where we are.

So away we went. We went to a movie together where I didn't reprimand him for getting up and down from his seat a million times (only when he tried to pick up crap from the floor). I didn't limit the amount of popcorn he ate and we sat together enjoying his movie about dinosaurs. We went to the toy store afterward and I bought him a new Matchbox car. It was a few hours without having to raise my voice, repeat myself or threaten time-out. It was refreshing and fun.

We came back home and within minutes were right back to where we started before our movie date. My heart sank.

This is when I was cognizant of the perpetual effort it's going to take on my part. Much like in my marriage where at one time we forced each other to sit down at night and have a conversation, it's going to take the same kind of work to shorten the gap in our parent/child relationship. And I have to do this alone, without expecting any change on his part, but hope that my redirection influences a positive change from him as well (like better listen skills and being more respectful).

Who knew that dates aren't just for married couples.

Kristin

The teenage years

My 16 year old daughter and I are struggling through the teenage years and trying to work on our relationship with each other. A few weeks ago I decided it had reached the point of needing professional help. Of course, she doesn’t think any of this is necessary but is reluctantly participating. We have already had a “together” session and now we are heading to her “one-on-one session.” It will be her turn to vent about me, while I sit in the waiting room and try to read a book.

We drive to the counseling center in silence. Me, pretending to listen to the radio. She, text messaging all of her friends. I can tell that she is nervous about this, and texting somehow makes her feel more secure. She looks so young and innocent all of a sudden.

We arrive and she goes into her “one-on-one session”. I am left in the waiting room, looking around at my surroundings. The office is in an old church which has been converted to an office. I am pretty sure that every furnishing in the room has been chosen for its soothing qualities. The music is classical and the reading material is sophisticated. There are no People or Us magazines for some reason. There are only beautiful books such as “20,000 Years of World Paintings”. I am pretty sure I will only be able to get through about 50 years of paintings during the allotted forty-five minute session. I am hoping that things will improve between us before I am able to make it through all 20,000 years of this book.

In this tranquil space it is hard to imagine some of the yelling and arguing that have gone on between me and my daughter. I know that this is normal teenager-parent conflict and I know that it will get better some day, but that is no consolation for right now. No one tells you how painful and difficult parenthood can be. I want to laugh and play with my precious daughter again, just like when she was little. That is why I have made the commitment to be here, and that is why I have forced her to come here with me. I will fight for this relationship as long as it takes.

While this process has been emotionally draining for both of us, I am starting to see signs of improvement. She comes out of the counselor’s private office and walks toward me with a smile on her face. We decide to stop at the grocery store on the way home. While a grocery store experience is usually not the highlight of my day, today it is. We shop together, pick out some food that we both like, and she tells me some things that are going on in her life. For the moment our world is harmonious. Please let this last.

Peggy

Summer

The husband is at work. The lunches are made. The kids are at camp. The dog has been to the dog park and is now sleeping on the floor. No one is scheduled to come to the house. It is the first time since summer began that I can sit down and just relax and be alone. My first thought is to reflect and write.

My daughter is growing up. I adore looking at her with her long gazelle legs and her skinny girl body. She just got a beautiful short haircut – her own idea – and shed the long baby hair. She is having play dates and going swimming and has a beautiful tan with a smattering of freckles across her nose. She sleeps late and seems happy. I know this is the calm before the storm as she threatens to become a full blown adolescent.

My son is going to camp and has friends. He is bruised and scabbed and much darker then the rest of us. He has “tiger feet” from the uneven tan his Keens make. He falls asleep instantly at night telling me he is playing hard.

Everyone seems to be in a good groove. We have settled into our summer routine, a slower and less rushed pace. This moment is so fragile. I will try to appreciate it until the spell is broken.

Elisabeth

Updates

Thanks to Kristin, Kristina, Julie, and Kai for coming to the meeting last night.

Krsitin is going to help me make the blog more interactive so that anyone interested can be registered to submit to the blog themselves. We are also going to change the "about me" to make it more about the group. Finally, we will start to work on on marketing to attract more viewers.

Keep working on the "this I believe" pieces.

Next meeting is Saturday July 18 at 8am at Catalyst on Drake and Shields.

Happy Writing!

Remembering Miles

Today is the anniversary of the birth/death of my son Miles. He would have been seven years old today.

How is it possible that so many years have passed when the pain is still raw and fresh. How is it possible that he has not aged a day and still is my newborn baby when my other children are now nine and four. How is it possible that my brother and his partner have planted seven years worth of trees in his honor.

Miles still lives with me, and secretly I consider myself to be a mother of three and not two. I still cannot understand why people don’t miss-ask-wonder about his absence. I still wish I could touch him and see what he would look like as a two year old, five year old, seven year old.

But I can’t. And my other children will be awake soon and I must get lunches made for camp. I will try not to let them see me cry. I am sorry I could not bring him safely into this word.

E

Next Meeting!

Hi All,

KUNC is accepting "this I believe" pieces... Shall we try to get some submitted?

Go to their website for further instructions!

Elisabeth

Congrats to Kristin!

Congratulations on your new blog! This blog describes eating experiences in Fort Collins! Everyone check it out and leave comments!

www.feastingfortcollins.blogspot.com

Elisabeth

Meeting Update

Thanks to Peggy and Julie for a great evening... It was fun just chatting at Cafe Vino.

Our next meeting is Thursday June 4th at 7 pm. The location is Genoa Coffee and Wine for you Southern folks. If anyone has a topic that they wish to write about let me know.

Keep writing!
Elisabeth

Fear Factor

Several years ago my two young daughters and I were laying on my bed one Saturday night. We were all comfy in our pajamas, we had our books in hand, the room was quiet and we were ready for a mother-daughter read-in. As we began reading, our cat begin meowing. It was a soft meow at first, which caused me no alarm as she continually wanted attention and I thought she was just demanding some petting. We all ingored her and went on with our reading. The meowing became louder and more relentless. She then began meowing with such a strange tone that it was really getting on my nerves. Exasperated, I put down my book, yelled “Sadie, shut up!” and took a quick glance her way. The visual of that night still sticks with me today. Our cat was batting her paw at a snake on my bedroom floor. This was what the frantic meowing had been about. Now, considering that the bedroom is on the second level of my house, and I am not in the habit of bringing snakes inside, I had no idea how the snake came to be on my bedroom floor. All I knew at that moment is that I was deathly afraid of snakes, and I would never be able to work up the nerve to catch it and remove it. I was already mentally preparing to move my family to a hotel to live until the snake was caught.

I quickly decided that my only chance at removing the snake was to coax one of my girls to do it for me. They were young and had not yet developed that horrible fear of snakes that many of us have. They still thought snakes were cool and interesting, and I was hoping that I could take advantage of their innocence. However, I knew that the only way my plan was going to work was that I would not be able to show any fear myself. I had to make it seem like it would be fun for one of them to catch the snake and carry it outside. I couldn’t allow them to see the absolute terror in my face or else they would potentially freak out on me, leaving us with our only other option: moving.

So, I nonchalantly called for Rachel, my oldest daughter, who was maybe 8 or 9 at the time, to “pick up the snake and take it outside where it will be happier.” I used my calmest voice. My verbal demeanor was that of “I would do it, but I’m a little busy right now, can you do it?” The same kind of voice I would have used to ask her to get something out of the fridge. No big deal, just get it done.

She obediently responded to my request and went to pick up the snake. I, of course, had to see with my own eyes that it was truly leaving our house, so I followed her down the stairs. Just as we reached the kitchen, the snake began wrapping it’s tail around her wrist. “Mom……”, she said in a tentative voice, “I’m scared, I can’t keep holding onto it.” Knowing that Rachel was my only hope, I shot her a quick, “don’t be silly, it’s not going to hurt you, just keep going.” I was praying that she could make it to the patio door before she panicked and dropped the snake on the floor, which would send me into my own episode of Fear Factor. I adopted the philosophy of “if I don’t show any fear, neither will she.” It was my only option.

I am pleased to report that many years later we are still living in the same house. Rachel made it to the patio door that night with the snake wrapped around her wrist, unraveled it from it’s grasp, and threw it into the backyard. She had accomplished a feat that for me at that moment was on the same magnitude as saving humanity.

Rachel still has no fear of snakes. In fact, she has a pet snake, which, ironically, is living in the same house with us right now. As for me, I gaze into it’s aquarium and look at it, but never touch it and never plan to. We occasionally talk about “the night of the snake” and laugh about it now. To this day none of us have any idea how it got into our house and into our second floor bedroom.

Peggy

Fear?

Dora the Explorer is interrupted with a honking warning sound as the emergency broadcast system is being tested. "Tomato!" "Tomato!" my daughter starts shouting and crying at the same time. She is 3 and thinks that this warning sound means that we are about to have a tornado. Not that she knows anything about tornados. She has never seen or been in one, I have never spoken about one, and I am not afraid of one happening here myself. But for some reason she thinks that something dangerous is about to happen - not to mention that they are only testing the emergency broadcast system.

How do we become afraid and more importantly how do we stop the fear. For her, it must be just an urgent and scary noise that has interrupted the normal dullness of the routine and Dora's perky quest to find the missing treasure. As we grow up we learn to fear things that seem to be more possible each day.

I hold her and reassure her and lie promising that we will never have a tornado here and that everything is fine and safe and that I will protect her forever. It seems to work for the time being, but I feel a little guilty with my promises, even though she is only three years old.

Now that she is nine, I still make promises that I cannot keep. When my mother died she immediately made the connection that I could die one day as well. I promised her that she will always be OK and that I wont die for a very long time. My four year old is unfased, "I am sorry your mother died he says, obviously mimicing what others before him have said. Then he says we are all going to die but not for a very long time", mimicing what I have said.

Everyone has fears. Here is my incomplete list: I am afraid of dying, leaving my kids, getting cancer, getting old, getting fat, getting Alzheimer's disease, spending too much money, losing a child, looking stupid, looking incompetent, dying in a plane crash, food poisoning, high fructose corn syrup, insomnia, and global warming.

We all have fears but we somehow manage to keep them at bay. If we did not, we couldn't function. I think it is because as humans we are stupid. We actually think that these things won't happen if we don't think about them. Some of us try to face our fears, but really what does that do. You know that old saying we have nothing to fear but fear itself - that seems ridiculous to me. There are a lot of things that we really should be afraid of. We just need to think about the reality - later.

That must be why we have TV! Television, whatever your poison be it the Real Housewives of Orange County or the Bachelor or Iron Chef allows us to not think about our fears. In fact, it is usually when I am lying in bed at night when the house is quiet and my husband begins to snore that I think about my list at all. The trick must be to keep occupied with all the other stuff. Maybe the interruption in Dora is what did it to my daughter. Maybe kids are smarter than we think.

Elisabeth

I like Dates

"I like dates." This ingenious signature sat under a profile photo of dried dates in a food-related web forum I read a while back. Made me snicker.

But shuffling plates among two picky children at Country Buffet and hustling out to nurse a crying baby in the car while my husband goes shopping next door and returns to change the toddler in the back hatch and then singing Twinkle Twinkle all the way home to calm the still-crying baby (true story!) is not a date. Neither is trying to catch snips of a riveting dvd between stinky diapers, spilled milk, and loud sibling rivalry over the train set. Forget romantic snuggling under a blanket; we can't sit on the couch together five minutes uninterrupted.

Dates were fun before kids came along. Movies and meals dotted the calendar, and often unplanned we simply took off cycling or drove to the library or meandered around the neighborhood hand in hand under evening stars. Most significantly we talked – about our life together, our days, our dreams, what to plant in the vegetable garden, where to go next weekend.

We do go on occasional dates, real ones without kids, but aside from being woefully scarce, they seldom involve meaningful connection. Discussions revolve around meal plans, daily chores, and… the children, of course. Even when they are absent we can't escape from them! And frequently we're too busy complaining to actually hear each other. Perhaps if we went out more often we would exhaust the grumbling and start sharing the joys again.

I still smile when I think about that forum signature. I like dates too. Better put some on the shopping list.

Kristina Lim

I can do it all myself!

From the day a woman sees the two pink lines on a positive pregnancy test, it starts. Unsolicited advice. Also known as “assvice” (a personal favorite description of mine). For some odd reason, everyone from the grocery store clerk, the mailman, the strange old lady gassing up her car to your Aunt Edna will give you any and all advice they can come up with on how to raise your own child.

“Don’t hold them too much. You’ll spoil them.”

“Make sure to start feeding them rice cereal in the bottle when they are born so they start sleeping through the night.”

“Put some socks on that baby! It’s 80 degrees out and his feet will get cold!”

Then there’s the parenting choice debates: Formula feeding versus breast feeding, to cry it out or not, to vaccinate or not, to sleep on their back or their stomach – really, the list is almost endless.

I never understood why everyone else cared so much about how I (or any other mother for that matter) took care of my children. Why was it anyone else’s business? Why did people think I was so incapable of figuring it out on my own? This was the aspect that bothered me the most. I am a figure-it-out-on-my-own kind of person. I have always been that way and I will be this way forever. I readily admit that Google is one my life essentials next to air, food and coffee. I hate to ask for help and you know if I do ask, then I must really need it. I think most everyone that I associate with knows this about me and while they still offer help, they are not offended when I turn it down. Well, most of them anyway. Everyone with the exception of my Mother-in-law.

Mothering techniques have evolved over the years. When my husband and I were babies, there were no such things as car seats, outlet covers or properly spaced crib slats and nobody dared to question the advice of their pediatrician. Everyone just did as they were told, no ifs, ands or buts. New mothers depended heavily on their own mothers, their mother-in-laws and their grandmothers (if they were still alive). The “it takes a village” philosophy was strong. And then? We entered the age of information.

Technology changed everything, even motherhood. We became connected to medical websites, parenting circles grew and we found mothers all over the world experiencing the same challenges with their children of the same age. We are able to find the most up-to-date information on how to raise our children at the click of the mouse and the old child-rearing advice passed down from generation to generation fell by the wayside (like giving a baby Karo syrup for constipation). I think technological evolution has hurt some feelings. At least it has in our family, anyway.

While the “assvice” still comes from random people and I just blankly smile and nod while trying my best not to blurt out “mind your own business” (which has actually happened before – another story for another time), the fact that I don’t follow what has been done for generations, or acted like a helpless child when trying to care for my babies has ruffled some feathers. My “I can do it on my own” (or “I can do it all myself!” as my older son likes to say) attitude combined with being born in the age of information has not been the ideal combo for those who expected to be apart of the “information from the village”. I think a lot of moms in this generation may be in the same situation. Technology has changed not only the way we mother, but the way we relate to older generations in regard to parenting.

Kristen

When does motherhood get easy?

Years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, I didn’t have the ability to comprehend what lay ahead. I was completely focused on my pregnancy and the new addition to the family. In the early years, it’s easy to get caught up in the “baby-ness” of it all. There is such excitement about the cute little clothes, decorating the nursery, and picking out the perfect name. Of course, these things are great fun and they should be! Having a baby is truly the greatest life transforming event that we experience in our lives, but it is not as easy as I once thought it would be.

The baby years are all-consuming. Every ounce of energy is directed toward this tiny helpless being. I remember thinking that this is probably the hardest stage of motherhood and that my life would surely get easier as my babies grew up. They would become more independent and when they could do things for themselves, I would have my freedom back. There would be no more crying and screaming in public and no more toting a suitcase of baby paraphernalia with me at all times. What I failed to comprehend at the time is that it never gets easier.

The years passed and my kids became a little bit older and a little more independent. Surely this was the time when it would get easier. My kids could get their own food from the fridge, were potty trained, and were somewhat rational. I saw a vision of myself in a lounge chair in the backyard, sipping a drink and reading, while my little darlings frolicked happily in the backyard sprinkler. Unfortunately, my imagination and reality did not align as I had planned. Yes, I have sat outside while my kids played. But, instead of the calm and relaxing scene I envisioned, a more typical day went very differently. One kid pushes the other, at which time the pushed one falls into a pile of dog poop and screams. The youngest one, oblivious to his sisters’ fight, wanders towards to the far edges of the yard in pursuit of the dog. It’s hard to comprehend what you are reading when you are constantly monitoring the perimeter of the yard with quick glances and refereeing fights. I put my book down and repeat to myself, when my kids get a little older, this will be easier.

Now my kids are older. One is in college, one is in high school, and one is entering middle school. Years ago this is when I thought it was all going to get real easy. How wrong I was! When they are little, at least they are within your control and influence.

We now have meaningful adult conversations. However, I never realized that the meaningful conversations would revolve around topics such as drugs, alcohol, and premarital sex. I never imagined this, but this is what we as mothers must do these days.

I once again lose sleep at night, but it’s not due to a crying baby. It’s due to the anxiety caused by a teenage daughter who has just gotten her driver’s license and doesn’t come home on time. It is the fear that if the phone rings at night and the kids are out with their friends, that it is going to bring tragic news.

My kids are my life and my soul. I worry about them all of the time.

Being a mom never gets easy. It just changes.

Peggy McNeal

Things change and stay the same

My mother was complicated, but our relationship was not. In retrospect, I realize that it never changed or evolved the way that I would have wanted or even expected it to. It has always been the same and it has always revolved around her. Even when things change, they stay the same.

My mother was diagnosed as a manic depressive in her late teens. It was called bipolar disease later. Whatever the term, no one ever talked to me or my brother about that disease or what it meant to our lives. No one ever asked if we were OK, or scared, or angry. Everyone acted like she was perfectly normal and the crazy things that happened from time to time were not to be discussed among outsiders. When she would have an "episode" when I was a young child, my grandmother and grandfather would do their best to take care of everything and then when I became older I inherited that task. During these times I learned to watch out for her.

My mother was beautiful, intelligent, and talented. But she always felt that she was better than she was, better
than us or the rest of the world. It was her disease that gave her this confidence but at the same time it made it impossible for her to realize her potential. Throughout most of my childhood she alternated between depression, laying on the couch watching TV day and night, and intermittent episodes of mania during which we all lived in a state of unreality. There was a constant battle between realities - hers and the rest of ours.

I loved my mother and I have always felt that she did her best to love me. Like all children, I always tried to gain her love - whether by "being good" or getting good grades or keeping my room clean. It was not until I had a daughter of my own that I fully realized all that was missing. It happened when my daughter had just came home from the hospital after she was born. I was feeling insecure and tired and asked my mom to help give me her first bath. I thought that maybe this would be the moment - three generations of women - making a memory. I would tell my daughter the story when she was grown. In her usual form she just told me that you just give her a bath - you're a smart girl, figure it out. And that's when I finally did. There would never be any hallmark card moments between me and my mom and I would just have to accept things the way they were. I made a peace within myself - this is how it is and I didn't want to live without her, so I would try to believe that this was the best she could do and that it wasn't her fault. And I always knew that things would be the same until she died. That I would have to tip toe around her and her moods. That I would not be the center of attention. That my true feelings would not be heard. That I would never hear that she loved me or was proud of me and I would have to be all right in just knowing that she was.

Then one day she called to tell me that she felt a mass in her rectum. She hadn't even gone to the doctor yet. I felt nauseated but knew that it was probably real. I made plans to visit, once again putting my own needs and now the needs of my own children on the back burner to look after her.

I arrived at her apartment to find a thin, frail, sick woman. The house was in disarray and it smelled. She could barely walk. She hadn't made any appointments. When I saw her I started to cry and told her that she looked terrible and why hadn't she called be earlier. To that she responded that it wasn't nice to say that she looked terrible. Still living in her bipolar world. For the rest of the week I took care of her - not trying to keep her from sleeping with the milkman and trashing the house, but trying to keep the house from burning down when she dropped her cigarette, cleaning up after she went to the bathroom, and making doctor's appointments that she refused to keep. The whole time all I could think was this really happening, just as when she was manic and did crazy things. Will I forever question the reality of a situation? When she died, what I knew would happen did. She just slipped away without any words of wisdom, goodbyes, or even a will for that matter.

Now that she is dead, I miss her terribly. I want to call and tell he what happened. I can't erase her cell phone number from my phone. I want to feel like I still have a chance to change things between us and to be closer. But now that will never happen. Just as I knew before that it would never happen.

Elisabeth

April 18th Meeting

Thanks to everyone who came to today's meeting.

Special Thanks to Laura Bridgwater - we really appreciate you taking the time to speak with us!

Our next meeting will be May 7th at 7:30 pm at Cafe Vino on College Avenue. The topic is FEAR.

Next Meeting!

Hi all!

The next meeting is Saturday, April 18th at 9am at the Bean Cycle. Hope to see all of you there!

Elisabeth

Next Meeting!

Hi All!

The next meeting is this Thursday, March 26 at 7 pm at Cafe Vino (on College Avenue). Please join us!

Elisabeth

Loss of Sense of Self

I used to be a New Yorker. I used to be an OB/GYN who worked 80 hours per week. I used to be able to go away for the weekend. Now, I am a suburban mother of two children, a dog, and a mouse. And a wife. I used to work in SOHO, wear high heels, make money, and meet friends for drinks in hipster bars. I used to live in a one bedroom apartment where I could see the Empire State building if I leaned out the window and really craned my neck. Now, I have a house, a laundry machine, a dishwasher, a car, a stroller, two car seats. I used to be able to carry on adult conversations. People would ask me what I did and what I thought. Now, I am invisible.

Having a family is wonderful, I don't need to tell you that. Even so, I still mourn the loss of my former self. My designed, planned, manicured self. I have given that up for a life of drop offs and pick ups and part-time underpaid work. There are days when I don't shower or get dressed - I just throw on my clogs and a ponytail and head out of the door, rushing to get to school on time. There are days when I want to scream because I haven't read a book without pictures or left the house or gone to the gym.

There are also days that I sit around the dinner table and look at the amazing people that I live with. The girl who thanks me for combing her hair and wants to give me a kiss. The boy who only wants me to put him to bed. The man who says thank you for keeping the family organized and the house together. The woman who has become the accountant, cleaning service, chauffeur, personal shopper, chef, teacher, and artist. For as much as I have lost my old sense of self I have gained many new ones.

I will never be who I once was was prior to this great adventure but I will try to love who I have become. I will not get paid in money or prestige but in kisses, hugs, and the satisfaction of watching everyone grow and learn and become. I know I have sacrificed a lot, but I also know that I have traded that for a home and a place of belonging. And I will hang on to a piece of my prior sense of self when I am able to carve out time for me. I will do this for me.

Elisabeth

Mom Blunder

Last month I committed the ultimate mom blunder. I forgot to send my son’s class picture order form and money with him to school on class picture day. Not only did I forget to send the money and the all-important envelope, but I also forgot to dress him in anything decent. He was wearing a beat up white t-shirt with black bats on it, with teeth marks on the collar, where he takes his shirt into his mouth and bites on it while playing video games. The result of him biting on the collar is that the neck is stretched out and tattered and looks like it is permanently starched with saliva. The entire outfit looked kind of vampire-like with the bats, and worn out vampire-like at that.

He tells me this news as I pick him up from school in the afternoon. He greets me at the car with an accusatory, “Mom, you forgot the picture order form and money!” Wow, what else have I forgotten this week? My mind starts racing. “Am I supposed to send something to school for your Valentine’s party on Friday?” I ask him. “Well, other moms are sending cupcakes and cookies and drinks, but we probably have enough that you don’t need to send anything,” he answers. I think he is trying to cover for me.

“Are you getting Alzheimer’s?” he asks.
“No!” I answer back. “There is just too much in my brain right now”.

He is accustomed to the mom who always has the healthy snack packed in the backpack, all permission slips properly signed and returned on time, and definitely never forgets the picture form and money. How could this have happened? My seemingly controlled existence is crumbling. My brain is on overload and suddenly I am suspected of having Alzheimer’s. All I want to do is cry.

It occurs to me that I am no longer just a person. I am the supreme organizer and carrier of all important information for my family. The human encyclopedia of dates and times, the keeper of who needs to be where and when and what they need to take with them. If someone forgets their homework or their lunch or their shoes, it is somehow my fault that they have failed to have these items with them.

Most days I do pretty well in this role as supreme organizer. Other days, like this particular class picture day, I fail miserably in my duties. Some days I simply want to walk out of the house without taking care of any details for anyone and try to remember back to the day when I was not the master extraordinaire of all family stuff.
Today I opened my son’s backpack and the dreaded class picture was inside. I almost cringed as I opened the envelope, hoping to see him in the back row with his body blocked from view by the biggest kid in the class. No such luck. There he is in the front row with a big smile on his face, proudly standing front and center, with the ugly beat up bat shirt on. I look closer to examine it, and realize that you can’t even see the teeth marks on the collar. What you can see is his smile that is a mile wide. Maybe I didn’t fail after all.

Peggy

Nothing Like Samson

As a second time mother, I clearly remember some of the pitfalls that occur during the first few months of motherhood; the lack of sleep, the dramatic change in lifestyle, the loss of your sense of self. First time moms are caught by surprise but after that, you know what to expect when it comes to finding balance in your role. Or so you think.

After my first son was born, I was quickly sucked into Mommyhood. I was his mother first and foremost, everything else took a backseat. I was busy in the routine of breast feeding, diaper changing, cleaning up spit up, not showering, not working out, not taking care of myself and not paying much attention to anything else. The first sign that I was loosing Me was when I flipped out over my husband making a trip to Home Depot after work to pick up some screws. After being housebound with nothing to do, that trip without me was as if he went out for a steak dinner and I was left home with Spaghettio's. The next sign was when we moved to Fort Collins and he had plans to go to a concert with our brother-in-law. I was LIVID that here I was - at home taking care of the house and our baby while he was working and then he had the freedom to run off to party at night. In that very heated argument that night, he said the words that needed to be said. "You need friends". So true.

That night I joined a moms group and it forever changed my life. I got ready for activities on almost a daily basis (showered and put on make up!), made friendships that will last a lifetime and with workout partners, I found my gym mojo again. I found Kristin once again and tried my best to keep it that way by writing, cooking, working out and many other interests.

One thing I began to notice was that the pendulum was swinging in the opposite direction this time around after my second son was born. I was determined not to let myself go, to get lost in motherhood. I made it a point to be dressed and presentable most nights when Bill came home from work. You'd think the only thing missing was my heels and pearls. I started working out as soon as I could so I could get back into decent shape. I started cooking the family dinners again and decorating the house. I did not want to be a frumpy house wife with two kids, even from the get go. But, it slowly started to happened again and all it took to realize this was a hair cut.

Not too long ago, my husband purchased some time for me to visit a salon in town so I could get my hair done. Without his effort, I would have continued on my ragamuffin ways until God knows when. All I know is that I wouldn't have made the time for myself, let alone the financial commitment. I had my appointment in the morning, leaving my baby with him (awake!) for the first time since he's been born.

Fortunately, I wasn't that far gone but now I see that I was beginning to slip. It was a chore to get out of the door to workout and it had been that way for quite some time. My husband took on the personal trainer attitude and literally guilted me out of the door on an almost nightly basis. I was still going out with friends and got myself ready for activities with the kids. I still made major efforts in our marriage. However, I think if I was left to my own devices, we would have had many more pajama days than we did.

After the stylist handed me the mirror, I could not wipe the goofy grin off my face if I tried. I was thrilled. Not because I liked the cut (even though I love it), but because I realized that after 24/7 pony tails for months on end, I was starting to lose sight of Me. I was once again lost in focusing on everyone else - being the "wife", the "mom", the "personal trainer", but not taking much time for "me". Seeing the pile of hair on the floor was shocking. I had been neglecting myself for much longer than I thought.

I’m lucky that all it took was a simple hair cut this time, but it sure was eye opening on how quickly you can get lost focusing on so many other people and forgetting about your Self.



Kristin

Next Meeting!

Hi Mamas!

Thanks to Peggy and Kristin for the meeting today!!! AND thanks to to Kristina for trying to make the meeting!!!

Our next meeting is set for Thursday March 26 at 7pm. Location to be announced. Contact me for details. I will post a meeting place when we have decided. Our next topic is the evolution of motherhood and relationship changes due to motherhood.

Happy Writing!
Elisabeth

Loss of Sense of Self

My husband used to ask our child-blessed friends which was harder, going from one to two or two to three. I always wanted three. The general consensus was that once you have two, adding more was easy.

I had sailed through college, worked several years including two abroad, entered grad school and married soon after, all along nurturing a horde of hobbies: photography, guitar, hiking, Japanese, on went the list. I held onto my dream in the face of infertility and when I defended my master's thesis eight months pregnant, life was good.

True, I did not like holding, smelling, hearing, or even looking at babies. "It'll be different when it's your own," I'd been told. But countless hours spent in my blue rocking chair, bedroom door shut, weepy eyes studying a tiny suckling infant, heart aching desperately to love her with a fierce maternal bond did not make it so. I was a babysitter and not even a good one.

I lost myself in those postpartum months. Yet in the dark cocoon of depression I was being forever transformed. When at last I spread my butterfly wings to soar, I found joy and freedom and beauty in the flight. I discovered the depth of a mother's love. I became a mom.

My third child was born this year, and I am happy. My whiteboard pen has been replaced by a feeding spoon, book pages by baby wipes, guitar picking fingers plucking cheerios from linoleum. Though at times I cast a wistful glance at the box of watercolors or the shelf of gourmet cookbooks, I am content to stash them away for a season of life that has redefined me. And I know that if I am ever asked whether it's harder going from one to two or two to three, I will have to say that my greatest challenge was going from zero to one.

Kristina Lim

Boys Noises and Girl Noises

As I come bounding down the stairs one Saturday morning, I hear strange primitive noises coming from the family room. “What is that noise?” I ask my husband. He replies without batting an eye, “It’s Colton. He’s just making boy noises.”

Boy noises. A new concept to me after giving birth to two girls before my boy. When my boy arrived so did the boy noises. These are noises such as exploding bombs, screeching brake sounds, dinosaur roars, and train whistles. When a boy plays by himself, a sound effect always seems to be needed. What is it about boys?

Get a few boys together and the conversation usually revolves around blowing something up, shooting something, crashing vehicles, or an encounter with a spaceship, alien, or monster. Boys love demolition derbies, purple extraterrestrial creatures with five eyes, and squishing bugs.

When a girl plays by herself, the sound effects are typically calming and soft. She will sing a song or quietly engage in a make-believe conversation with herself or the stuffed animal she is lovingly carrying around with her. No explosions or destruction. .

Girls love to talk. They love to create things: songs, plays, and dances. At a young age, my daughters were creating full-blown musicals and selling tickets to family and friends to watch their performances. It is true that girls are not always quiet. When a group of girls play together, it often involves a lot of incomprehensible giggling and shrill shrieking so high-pitched that at some moments only the dog can hear it. My husband does not understand. These are girl noises. I understand them.

Even as a grown woman, I am no different from these little girls. I am continually nurturing my family and building relationships. I value harmony and cooperation and peace and tranquility. I do not understand shooting things or blowing things up.

My husband, on the other hand, gets very excited about the 4th of July and the annual get together at our friends’ house that involves as many illegal fireworks as everyone can possibly smuggle into Colorado from Wyoming. The focus of the evening is on which grown man can make the biggest explosion and potentially set the most things on fire. The younger boys watch and observe in awe and amazement, anxiously awaiting the day when it will be their turn to impress their friends and blow up the most stuff.

Some things will never change. In the end I ask again, what is it about boys?

Peggy

Shiny Red Shoes

Having a child stirs up all your old insecurities and then reorganizes them and if you are lucky, makes them go away.

It was like that with the clothing issue.  Growing up I always felt very insecure about my appearance.  It didn't help that my mom and grandmother, huge hat wearing fashionistas who insisted that I wear cordoroy jumpers with itchy tights to school.  But I always wanted to wear what everyone else wore.  I wanted to fit in.  I wanted to disappear.  I would save all my money from dog walking and babysitting and buy Jordache jeans and Nike sneakers and then change in the stairwell of my apartment building between the first and second floor before heading to school only to change back before I  returned home.  Leading a schizophrenic clothing life dictated by either my seventh grade classmates or my matriarchy left me without any  real fashion sense of my own.  This fashion confusion has stayed with me as an adult.  Going to a store becomes a frustrating panic inducing event where I continually question my looks and often leave empty handed because I cannot even decide what to buy.  I always revert back to the old standard; jeans and T-shirts.  My cover was that "I just don't care about such superficial things like clothes".

When my daughter was born her clothing choices were dictated by my safe middle of the road philosophy.  Everything was washable and soft.  Everything was gender neutral.  However, she began to refuse to wear the little baby gap jeans overalls and the tiny converse all stars.  She wanted pink.  Pink tights, pink shoes, pink dresses.  The shinier the better - glitter and beads and sparkle.  Patent leather and sequins.  I realized that we were having a crisis when I was in a department store to select a pair of sturdy snow boots and she was fondling the shiny red patent leather party shoes.  When I said no, she threw her first tantrum in the middle of the shoe department and I carried her out, mortified - no shoes or boots in hand.

I actually became one of those annoying mothers in baby Gap who was actually asking their two year old which outfit she preferred because I was  uneducated on this issue.  To her credit, she was secure with all of her fashion choices and never refused to wear anything that she had picked out.  Her favorite shoes became the red sequined slip ons that were from a Dorothy costume.  She wore them to day care everyday and I became known as the mom with the daughter who wore the red shoes.

My feelings were mixed.  On the one hand, the frilly dresses, her obsession with princesses, fairies, and mermaids, uggghhhh...  I could see where this was leading - instead of a smaller version of myself she was an attention seeker - she was a girlie girl - she was a cheerleader.  My old insecurities surface as I heard my mother whispering in my ear - are you going to let her go out like that? as she had often said to me.

On the other hand, I was secretly happy that my daughter was developing her own fashion sense and that she was so secure in herself.  I patted myself on the back for not passing on my own clothing fears and holding back the unnecessary criticism that my mother felt free to express to me.  She was not afraid to accessorize.  She wore everything with such self confidence - I didn't want to do anything to squash it.  My mother be damned, she could wear her princess dress to the grocery store.

So, I did what any other loving mother would do.  I adapted.  I did a dark a white and a pink load.  I embraced my inner girl.  Slowly I began to rediscover that one of the powers of being a girl was that you can express yourself in so many ways.  You could be girlie or plain.  You could wear evening gowns or powers suits.  You had freedom.  Her reckless clothing abandon became infectious and pink underpants started showing up in my own bureau draws.  It was OK to  stand out.  It was OK to draw attention.  It was OK to look silly.  Despite all of my resistance to the sparkle and power of pink my daughter has taught me to relax a little and not to take myself too seriously.  Shopping has become fun, especially when she accompanies me and acts as my fashion consultant.  She has opened up a new world of choices to me...  and I have to admit that now she is growing up I sometimes miss the tiaras and the boas and especially the shiny red shoes.

Elisabeth

Like Water for Coffee

I have 10 free minutes to put my bazzillion thoughts out there; however, I have a screaming 10 month old sitting upon my lap who is not so keen on my doing so.  First off, though, I just have to say, this large cup of French Roast here at the Bean Cycle is seriously weak.... like water.... and now my whole morning is going to be just a bit more emotionally challenging.  I am a snob about certain things - mainly food and coffee.  Both can make or break my mood for hours.  I'll explain more about that when I have more time, and both hands.  For now, I'll just say, whoever is reading this (Elisabeth?), I want to wish you a beautiful, uplifting 70 degree day on this 5th day of February, and may your 1st cup of coffee be dark and rich!!! :)

Emily

Heard any good jokes lately?

Two funny stories my son's preschool teacher told me today:

1.  My son proudly told the kids in his class that his dog ate poop.  To which another little girl piped in "my dog is a vegetarian".

2.  A teacher who was subbing in his class said "I know you from daycare" to which my son replied, "no, I am from Korea".

You gotta chuckle....

E

Thoughts on growing older...

I am sitting in a theater watching an R-rated movie with my 18 year old daughter. As the previews begin to roll, my mind wanders, and at this precise moment it hits me. I am now the parent of an adult child. Surely it was only yesterday that she was my little girl and we were sitting together watching a Disney movie, laughing at animated characters and sharing a bag of popcorn. Now, as I look to the woman on my left, I marvel at her beauty and presence. I see my youth in her features. It is a bittersweet moment for me.

When did I become old enough to have a daughter sitting here with me watching an R-rated movie without thinking about covering her eyes at the questionable parts of the movie? When did I become the woman in the OB-GYN waiting room who is there only for the GYN functions and never again for the OB functions? Where did all the years go?

I loved her childhood and think I did a pretty good job raising her considering I didn’t know how to put a diaper on a baby when she came home from the hospital. Somehow, the natural maternal instinct kicked in and I never looked back. For someone who did not know how to be a mother in the beginning, I quickly took on the ferociousness of a mother lion protecting her cub if anyone even thought of harming my child. Just as those early months were the beginning of our mother and baby relationship, our relationship is now once again transitioning to a new place. Neither of us have been there before but we are learning along the way.

As the movie starts I am still caught in this confused state of how it feels to be the parent of an adult.

When people see us together, they often comment that she looks just like me. At first whenever someone would say this I would wait, expecting my daughter to roll her eyes or give some other type of nonverbal disapproval of this observation. Unbelievably, she never does this. She actually seems quite pleased to have people point out this similarity to me. What an amazing thing! We have managed to make it through the teen years with minimal fighting, and she still loves me. In fact, anyone seeing us at the theater would think that we are best friends. I think this new relationship is taking shape.

The mother lion in me never stops being a mother lion. Each time she heads off to college after a weekend at home, I caution her to “drive safe” and “call when you get there”. After she leaves from her weekend visits, I wander to her empty bedroom and straighten her comforter and feel the sense of loss of her presence in my house. I know that as her future grows, my place in her life will change. Our relationship has already started to change. This is a difficult reality to face.

Recently we were playing a board game in which she needed to come up with a word describing a hero that began with the letter “M” . Her answer was “Mom”. Yes, I’ve definitely done ok with this mothering thing.

The movie ends. I look at my daughter and she looks at me. I feel like I am sitting there with one of my very best friends. She is no longer the little girl with the ponytail and freckles. She is now a dynamic and creative young woman with her own opinions and beliefs. I couldn’t be more proud of her. I am finding that just like I loved her childhood, I am now starting to love her adulthood even if it means that I am growing older.

I smile and think to myself, a couple more years and I might get used to this.

Peggy McNeal

Meeting Updates

THANK YOU Emily and Peggy for attending the second meeting... We started to get into the writing and also brainstormed on how to spread the word. I think we are off to a promising start!

The next meetings are scheduled for:
February 14 Saturday at 9 am at the Bean Cycle and
February 26 Thursday at 7pm at 811 Peterson Street

Please bring a writing piece to share less than 500 words. Our topic is gender, but we will listen to any topic that inspires you.

Happy Writing,
Elisabeth

Battle of the Sexes

I was reading the NYT Sunday and was struck by an article in the STYLE section about the realities of previously well-off families in the NY area who have taken an economical hit and now have found themselves in the situation of the husband not working and the wife going back to work after being able to be stay-at-home moms. The article implied that this situation was working to increase the numbers filing for divorce. Not because the women resented going back to work, but because the men failed to take on all of the responsibilities of stay-at-home dad while unemployed and were now “clickers”, meaning they sat around the house watching TV all day causing frustration and resentment on the part of the woman. As I read parts of this article out loud to my husband he wondered aloud “what about their love for each other?”

I was able to relate to this situation. As a part-time stay-at-home-mom and a part-time OB/GYN I have assumed full-time household responsibilities. And although this makes sense (both due to my available time and our finances), I still become frustrated after I come home from a day at work and find dishes in the sink or clothes strewn everywhere. Like the women in the story I always expect that stuff to be part of the “stay-at-home” package, but it rarely is.

What is it about this part of “homework” that is so undesirable, overlooked, unrewarded, and undervalued? Is it the manual aspect or the dirty aspect or the temporary aspect? Is it the bleach-antifungal-antibacterial nature? Or is it that men are just lazy when it comes to this stuff. Apparently, this is the last great divide (at least in my household) to true equality of the sexes. I will continue to fight this fight, not because the housework is too much work for me, but because my husband needs to appreciate me and all the “little” stuff I do to keep things running smoothly. And he usually does...

Baby Browser

My son is adopted from S. Korea and we are "white". Although he is only four now, I worry about the day that he realizes he doesn't look like us (and they say that day will happen). We talk about his being from Korea and his Birth Mom all of the time, but the idea is still like Santa or the Tooth Fairy - he will believe whatever we tell him is true.

My family is addicted to our Wii. They love Mario Party and there are many mythical creatures of unclear species that you can choose as your character. One of them is Browser - part gorilla and part dinasour. My son likes him because he is big and growls. Last night as I kissed him goodnight he said "goodnight mommy Browser" to which I replied "goodnight baby Browser". For now, we are of the same and that it good.

FIRST MEETING!

Thank you to Emily and Suzanne for attending the first meeting of the Writing Mamas Salon in Fort Collins. Our next meeting will be on January 29th at 7pm. Please contact me (elisaaron@aol.com) for location details or any other information. Please bring several copies of a writing sample to read aloud.

Happy writing!
Elisabeth

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 69. She died this past September. I forgot that it was her birthday until I wrote the date on a note at work just after midnight. I am an OB/GYN and was working overnight from the 7th to the 8th. Three healthy babies were born this morning and they all share their birthday with my mother.

I loved my mother and now I miss her terribly. There is a huge hole in my life that used to be occupied by her. There are no more phone calls or visits. There is no more criticism. There is no more connection to the city in which we lived together. I still cannot believe that she is gone. I still cannot bring myself to delete her number from my cell phone.

My mother was complicated and so was our relationship. She suffered from bipolar disorder and I believe that was a big part of her personality. That could make it difficult to be around her, it blurred boundaries and often made her act inappropriately. It spurred hour long converstions with my brother and best friend complaining about what she said-did-didn't do.

But she was still my mother and I loved her. And even though she never said it, I know she loved me. And with each birth and new beginning I witnessed this morning I know that life goes on and is worthwhile.

Happy Birthday Mom

The Birth Story of Miles

The Birth Story of Miles
Labor Pains and Birth Stories
Catlytic Book Press

I remember everything about that morning. I remember thinking “remember every moment as it will be the last time that you give birth”. The last time you are pregnant, the last time you will be in labor. Remember, so that you can tell him years later the details of how he came into this world. I remember that I was wearing a black V-neck T shirt and maternity jeans and black DocMartens. I remember leaving the house before my 2 year old was awake, kissing my husband goodbye, and driving myself to the hospital. I remember thinking about all of the possible things that could go wrong, but by the end I would return with my new addition.

The induction began in a routine fashion. As an OB/GYN myself, I had struggled over whether to try to have a VBAC or just go for the repeat cesarean section. I decided on trying to deliver vaginally so that I would be better able to take care of my two year old and keep her life disruptions to a minimum. I also felt that I should follow the advice I gave to hundreds of patients, that there should be one set of rules for everyone.

Eventually my husband arrived, now that our daughter was fed, dressed, and happily playing at a friend’s house. The day was calm and peaceful and we chatted about the future in relative peace. I got my epidural, my doctor broke my water, and things progressed. Ten centimeters dilated arrived right on schedule. I allowed myself to think that this might actually work, that I might actually deliver vaginally. That my decision to try to labor was correct and all was right with the world. My husband even mused that this was much better than last time as he excitedly prepared to start coaching me in the pushing process.

Then all of our lives changed although we didn’t even seem to notice while it was happening. The posterior wall of my uterus had ruptured and the baby died inside of the place that had helped it to grow and thrive. In retrospect, all of the signs that something was going wrong were there, but were not clearly seen at the time. Errors in judgement became the groundwork for new errors. The monitor recorded my elevated heart rate while my baby was dying inside of me in front of numerous witnesses. After pushing for an hour, my doctor became concerned about the baby’s heart rate and I was rushed back for an emergency cesarean section. As in most emergencies, my husband was forced to wait outside imagining the worst. I was intubated and so all memory was lost until I awoke in the recovery room.

I remember asking “is he alright?” My answer came as my husband bent over to hug me and started crying. The baby had died. Miles was dead. I wanted to see him and as soon as the anesthesia had worn off enough and I could keep my eyes open, I was given Miles. He was dressed in a ridiculous outfit that must have been collected and saved for situations like these. I undressed him and looked at all of his body parts individually. He was so beautiful and new and perfect. Then I placed his naked body against mine and just held him while tears poured from my heart. The thing that I remember most is how he smelled. Someone, someone who I never met or got to thank, had washed him, had made him smell deliciously clean, and then had lovingly dressed him. Someone had understood that this is what I would remember and that he was important enough to have gone through this newborn ritual. Someone had taken care of him, as I would have, while I was unconscious in the operating room. That same someone had also lovingly took pictures of him in various poses, dressed and undressed, to document the existence of my son. Although I do not wish to meet that person she must know that doing these things have meant more to me than words could ever express.

I needed to hold Miles again the following day. I needed to show him to my family (all of whom did not agree to look at him) to prove that he had been here. My sister-in-law picked up the corpse, dressed and swaddled, and held him close and announced to the world “I love you and I will always love you”. When I remember that day, it is this moment that that brings me the most tears. There are loving, open people in this world who feel deeply.

It’s been several years since the birth and death of our baby. He still lives among us, but life has gone on. I am thankful that this was not my first child. My daughter forced me to go on with the day- to-day needs of life. Her smiles and laughter have made us recover faster. The most difficult thing for me now is to look at pregnant women, which has made my profession a little harder to work in. I know in my head that most, if not all, will be bringing home babies. But I worry that they will not, that they could experience the same loss that I have. They are so full of hope.

We are expecting again. This time it is a child from Korea. He will magically arrive on an airplane without epidurals, IVs, or surgery. It will be a painless delivery, for me. As I look at pregnant women and see the possibility of future sorrow, I also look at the arrival of our new child as a great source of sorrow for his mother. How do you give up a child, how do you recover from that pain? I guess you just go on and a small part of you never gives him up. I still look at his picture everyday. I still think about my birth story every time I do a delivery. He is still with me.

If memories keep your hopes and dreams alive, I hope that my son’s mother will have some good memories to get her through the difficult days that lie ahead. A picture, a footprint, a loving glance. My wish is that his mother knows that he is safe and clean and loved. In honor of his mother, I will try to remember every minute of the day of his arrival into our lives, so that I can tell him how he came to live with us and be ours.